


Oh Shit It's Gladiator!

by sarahgene12



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Age Difference, Ass to Mouth, Beating, Biting, Blood, Don't Judge Me, Fist Fights, I Don't Even Know, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Self-Indulgent, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 17:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8111152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgene12/pseuds/sarahgene12
Summary: Russell Crowe and Brendon Urie are at the same party. Brendon Urie, as per usual, is being a fuckboy. He likes it rough.





	

“Oh shit, it’s Gladiator!”  
Russell pulled his eyes away from the rotating lights in the bottom of his glass. He was pissed and pissed off in equal measure, dizzy from the heat and bottomless bourbons. The house was stuffed and stupid with partygoers, most of them half his age and either stoned or drunk off their entitled asses.   
Pop music pumped and shook through every room in the house, blasted out of laptops and cellphones and fuck all, and it was stupid and asinine and too hot, and none of these kids had acknowledged him at all, until the dipshit who called him Gladiator.   
The Dipshit was drunk too, and his eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked way too excited to see Russell as he pushed his way through half-naked bodies and booze.   
“Holy fuck, it is you! Yo, how’s it goin’, man?!”   
Russell swiveled his chair, shoving his broad back up against the bar and praying The Dipshit would take a hint, and fuck off.   
He didn’t. Instead, the kid hopped up on the chair next to Russell and draped an arm as far across the older man’s shoulders as he could reach. “Hey, don’t be rude, man! Lemme get you a fuckin’ drink! Oh man, it’s fuckin’ Maximus, man!”  
Russell turned his chair suddenly, nearly knocking The Dipshit on his ass; he spoke more to the bottom of his glass than to the kid when he said, “Beat it, kid, wouldja? I ain’t in the mood for this shit.”  
Through the distorted shapes of the cup that felt like crystal, he watched The Dipshit move. He was scrawny, with a couple of tattoos and just as undressed as the rest of them, in a pair of leather pants hanging low enough off his hips that Russell could see a few dark curls of hair, an inch or so below the belly button. His hair was kind of stupid and all messed up with sweat.   
The Dipshit laughed, a high, carefree bark of noise; he slapped Russell’s shoulder, flipped his hair, and seemed to survey his audience for a second; before Russell could fully realize what had happened, the younger man swooped in and planted a fat, wet kiss on his grey and stubbled cheek.   
Russell swung, forgetting the glass in his hand; he caught the Dipshit across the chest with his forearm and heard a satisfying “whoof!” as the little shit went down hard on his back. The glass hit a wall somewhere, and the room smelled a bit more like booze than it had before.   
He rose from his chair, swaying a little on his feet. The party had barely paused, with only a couple of people stopping to watch.   
“C’mere, you little prick!” The room spun; in the sudden movement he’d made to grab The Dipshit, little dots of black prickled his vision. Russell reached out blindly, managing a grip on the kid’s leatherclad thigh before—  
“Brendon, what the fuck?!” Somebody in the frenzied mass screamed as Brendon thrashed out of Russell’s clutches, swung his foot upward, and drove the bottom of his shoe straight at Russell’s face. The crack was heard over the music, and blood flowed immediately, spattering to the floor as Russell roared, half with pain and half in fury. He pounced again, ignoring the swimming in his head and Brendon scrambled to his feet, twisting to turn and run.   
Russell catches him by the back pocket of those stupid leather pants, and now more people are watching as Brendon goes down hard, catching himself with his hands, pants pulled off his hips. He wriggles hard to try to break Russell’s grip.  
“Fuck! What the fuck, man? Let me go!”  
“Oh no ya don’t!” Russell yanks hard on the pocket, avoiding Brendon’s feet this time as he kicks wildly, dragged back by his ass until he’s right where he needs to be. Russell throws a punch, releasing his hold on Brendon’s pants at the same time so he can stop one flailing leg from connecting hard with the side of his head.   
His knuckles clip Brendon’s fat bottom lip. The skin splits and there’s a dull thud when the back of the kid’s head smacks the floor. Russell squeezes the muscles in the leg he’s holding clear from his head, and Brendon’s eyes go wide. He raises a hand to his mouth, and spits red. When he curls his fingers into a fist and swings, Russell rocks back to avoid the punch, catches the skinny wrist in his own fist.   
They’re both drunk, that much is obvious, but Russell is stronger, and much bigger. He grabs Brendon’s arm and twists, flipping the kid onto his belly while Brendon screams, spitting curses. The crowd around them has grown to include most of the partygoers at this point, but no one’s stepping in to help.   
“Dude! Fuck! Cmon man! I’m sorry I fucked up your face! I’m sorry okay!” Brendon struggles; Russell grabs the back of his neck and squeezes, watching drops of blood spatter into that shitty haircut and the pale, sweaty expanse of Brendon’s back. He leans forward, planting one knee in the small of Brendon’s back.   
He leans forward farther, shifting his weight so his knees brace Brendon’s naked hips.  
“Listen up, asshole. I’ll let you up, yeah? But you touch me again and I’ll smash your pretty face in a million pieces. Got that, fucker?” Though he knows the kid would never admit it, he can feel Brendon’s whole body shaking under his weight.   
Cries of protest flicker through the surrounding crowd, all of whom are still drinking, some of them still dancing. Brendon doesn’t answer. Russell’s just about to repeat his threat when he feels him move; he doesn’t quite believe it but it happens.   
Flat on his belly, pinned to the ground by the force of Russell’s hands and knees, Brendon rolls his hips and wiggles his ass, pressing himself up against Russell’s lower belly.   
“Hey, fuck you, fat ass!” He screams this, rocking his ass up at Russell’s crotch and still shaking. Russell tightens his grip on the back of Brendon’s neck and pulls him to his feet, thrown off by this new development and trying not to show it.   
He presses his mouth close to the little punk’s cheek. “Oh yeah? Fuck me, huh? I don’t think so, you skinny shit.” He drags him by the neck out of the room, away from the eyes of the onlookers.   
When Russell finally drops him, they’ve stopped in the kitchen, which is oddly deserted. He literally drops him, throwing him down on his hands and knees.   
Russell snags a handful of napkins and holds them to his face. They quickly bloom red. He watches Brendon stand, slowly and not without help from a nearby chair.   
The leather pants are barely on him, yanked lower off his hips in the fight. They’re low enough to squeeze the curve of the top of his ass; Russell notices this, and the unmistakable bulge under the belt buckle.   
“You’re fucking joking.” He leans back on the counter. “You fucking love this, don’t you? You like getting the shit kicked out of you?”  
Brendon grins, slow and lazy. His wild hair is hanging in front of his eyes; he tosses his head to brush it out of the way, at the same time working the button and zipper of his pants. He hooks both thumbs under the waistband, his eyes locked on Russell’s. He raises one eyebrow, an insolent little smirk on those fat, pink, and bleeding lips.   
Russell growls quietly; he takes a step forward, than another, and when Brendon still doesn’t move, he’s quick—one giant hand reaches out and pinches one tiny nipple, and twists.   
Brendon shrieks out of surprise and pain and hits his knees. His head is thrown back, his cheeks patched bright red. Russell twists again and incites an insane reaction: as if the nub of flesh were a switch, Brendon yanks his pants down to his knees, fingers working the cloth first past one knee, than the other, until the stupid things are bunched and forgotten behind him. He’s completely naked.   
Russell releases his hold, a little amused by how easy this is proving to be. A little alarmed, too. “Whore. Cocky little shit.”  
From where Brendon kneels in front of him, he can see beads of sweat pebbling on his forehead, the way those fucking fat lips are wet and parted. Needy. He waits, relishing the way world tilted and whirled, how the whole room spun, dowsed in whiskey.   
Brendon crawls forward, audibly gasping. He reaches up and presses his hand to the front of Russell’s trousers, and moans. His tongue licks once at his bloody bottom lip. Scooting forward on his knees, he leans in, pressing his mouth to the cloth, inhaling; he feels Russell’s cock twitch against his nose, and one hand slips down between his own legs.   
He’s only just begun to stroke himself when Russell slaps him, hard across the face.   
“Me first, you little slut. That’s what you want anyway, right?” Brendon nods slowly, taking the hand he’d had on himself and tugs the zipper of Russell’s trousers downward. He slips his hand inside and feels Russell’s cock, slowly becoming hard under his touch.   
He rubs him through the cloth of his underwear, slowly rocking his hips in time to his strokes. Russell growls low in his throat, working the buckle of his belt free from its loop and unhooking the button of his suit trousers. He lets them fall to his ankles, and watches the way Brendon’s eyes slowly glaze over, the way his mouth drops open in a sweet, pink ‘O’.   
Russell reaches down and grabs a handful of that stupid haircut and pulls hard, yanking another moan from that sweet mouth. Brendon wraps both hands around the base of Russell’s cock and licks the tip, drawing the flat of his tongue across the tip until he feels Russell’s thighs tremble. Russell’s hand pushes him forward, gripping the back of his head hard enough to hurt; he rocks his hips forward and hears a quiet gack!, feels Brendon pull him all the way into his mouth and purse his lips. Those lips.   
“That’s right, that’s right, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Little cock whore, little bitch. You like that, huh?” He’s grunting his words, rocking his hips a little faster, a little faster, twisting his fingers in Brendon’s hair, relishing every whine the little shit managed to get past the dick in his mouth.   
“Mmmm. Mmmmm.” Brendon squeezed and sucked, running his tongue along the underside of Russell’s cock, squeezing his eyes shut tight, gagging and yearning to attend to his own body. Russell began to thrust harder, faster, pulling harder on Brendon’s hair until tears stung the corners of his eyes.   
“Fuck. Fuuck yes. That’s it. You like that? Little shit. Choke on it.”  
Tears rolled down Brendon’s cheeks, moans vibrated in his throat, his own cock aching to be paid attention to, but he didn’t dare.   
All of the sudden, Russell pulled back, panting. Before Brendon could protest, he grabs him by the throat again and pulls him to his feet. With the other hand, he points to the kitchen counter. His belly rises and falls with every heavy breath.   
“There. Bend over.” His voice is rough; he strokes himself slowly, watching as Brendon obeys, standing upright on trembling legs and moving towards the counter.   
Brendon leans forward, pressing his stomach flat against the cold marble, bracing his hips against the smooth edge. Though he isn’t asked, he spreads his legs, pressing his hands flat against the countertop.   
“Mmm. Look at that. Such a good little whore.” Russell reaches out and traces a line from the back of Brendon’s neck to the base of his spine. His hand slips lower, cupping Brendon’s ass. He gives it a little slap and Brendon jerks, biting back another moan. Russell chuckles quietly, and his hand drops. For a long moment, Brendon feels nothing. Hears nothing except for his breathing, and Russell’s.   
Then sudden pain, sharp and jagged. Brendon screams, rocking his hips up against the counter’s edge, and he tries to twist away. The pain comes again, like needles in one ass cheek. Then he feels rough hair, and wet. When the pain doesn’t come again, he twists as far as he can and looks. Russell is kneeling behind him, wearing a horrible grin. One hand slides back up to Brendon’s ass, stroking in soft, slow circles. With the other, Russell points at the spot where the pain came. A bite mark. Bright red, already turning purple.   
“Turn around. I won’t do that again.”   
Brendon obeys, lying flat on the countertop, feeling the throbbing in his dick turning to a hot, dull ache. Feeling Russell running his hands up and down the insides of his thighs, he actually begs. “Please. Oh fuck, just…please.”   
Russell presses his lips to the base of Brendon’s spine, then purses his lips, breathing cool circles on damp skin. “Say it, you little whore. Please what?” He brings his mouth in closer, nuzzling his nose at the spot just above Brendon’s asshole. Both of his hands come up and grip Brendon’s ass, squeezing, kneading. He feels Brendon pushing back on him, and he opens his mouth, dragging his mouth, his bearded chin and his tongue over the rim, laying his tongue flat and pressing it into Brendon. He shakes his head back and forth, pushing the tip of his tongue inside just a little, pulling it back, and pressing back further.   
Russell has a firm grip on Brendon’s hips, can feel him pushing himself down onto Russell’s tongue, his breath coming in high, shrill gasps; he can’t see Brendon but he’s almost certain that the hand not pushing Russell’s head into his ass is clasped over his mouth, muffling his screams. Russell can hear them just fine. He can feel Brendon’s thighs trembling violently, can hear his knees, surely already bruised, knocking against the underside of the counter.   
Russell buries his face in deeper, pushing his tongue inside as far as it would go, and hums low in his throat; the vibrations course through Brendon and his hand can no longer keep him quiet. He drops it back to the counter, arching his back until the edge is biting into his belly. His hips rock furiously, humping the countertop as Russell uses his grip on his hips to pull his face in deeper.   
“Oh fuck! Oh FUCK! Fuck me! Please! FUCK!” Brendon is nearly sobbing. Russell reaches forward with one hand and wraps his fingers around Brendon’s throat, squeezing just a little. The other, he holds palm up under Brendon’s chin.   
“Spit.”  
Brendon does as he’s told. Some of the saliva stays on his chin. Holding Brendon flat to the counter with one hand, Russell uses the other to slick himself up. He positions himself between Brendon’s widely-spread legs, and reaches around to grab Brendon’s cock. At the same moment he strokes downward, he pushes himself inside.   
His grip tightens around Brendon’s cock, squeezing and stroking to the rhythm of his thrusts. Brendon is surprisingly quiet, whispering “fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!” under his breath as Russell goes faster, hearing the way Brendon’s knees knock against the underside of the counter, the flat smacking sound of his own thighs hitting the back of Brendon’s. The slight whoof the little cock whore puffs out of his mouth when he’s thrown harder into the table’s edge.   
His own body is beginning to ache, but he bends his knees just a little, removing his hand from Brendon’s neck and using it to brace Brendon’s hip as Russell thrusts upwards, the other hand still pulling on Brendon’s cock. The effect is immediate.  
Russell can feel the tension building in Brendon’s muscles, and quickens his strokes. At the last moment, he reaches further down and squeezes his balls. Brendon’s whole body clenches, and this time he really screams, loud enough that the partygoers in the other room probably hear. His hips hump the counter one more time and roll back; Russell feels Brendon’s body begin to relax and holds him in place, one huge hand flat against the middle of his back. A second later, his orgasm courses through him, and he feels himself fill Brendon’s asshole, before he can pull himself away. He feels Brendon shudder.   
Russell steps back, leaning against the opposite countertop. He eyes his trousers, puddled on the floor, but doesn’t reach for them, not yet.  
For a long time, Brendon stays slumped across the counter, still shaking. The bite mark on his ass was going to bruise. Probably a couple other places too.


End file.
